


Warrior's Way

by Lazy8



Series: Promises [3]
Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Afterlife, Death from Old Age, Family, Friendship, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 01:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2292065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lazy8/pseuds/Lazy8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having outlived nearly everyone he has known, Piccolo is finally nearing the end of his own life and his long-awaited reunion with Gohan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The End

He was dying.

Of course, he hadn't realized it at first. The onset had been so gradual that it had taken him a long time to even notice that he was tiring sooner, or that his reflexes had slowed. As he wasn't a reader and tended to rely on his _ki_ -sense and his ears in battle, even his deteriorating eyesight had gone unchecked for the better part of a century.

As a matter of fact, it wasn't until his final sparring match with Android 17 that Piccolo was finally forced to admit that even he had succumbed to old age. They had been in the middle of their usual weekly bout when 17, taking advantage of his lack of _ki_ , had phased out of sight only to reappear right behind him. Normally Piccolo's sensitive hearing would have alerted him in time to counter, but this time he just hadn't been fast enough: he remembered beginning to turn around, only to find himself suddenly on the floor of the Lookout with Dende kneeling beside him, a look of immense relief on his face. He had, the younger Namekian explained, sustained a severe concussion, and was extremely lucky to have survived even long enough to make it to a healer.

Piccolo hadn't seen 17 since that day.

From then on he had lightened his training, sparring only with himself and keeping close to the Lookout. But even that hadn't lasted, and before long he had repeatedly found himself too exhausted to make the flight back up after even a relatively light training session. After several nights spent on the ground he had stopped leaving the Lookout altogether, and resigned himself to meditation as his primary outlet.

Eventually, however, the fatigue – and, by this time, the pain – had gotten to the point where even that had ceased to be pleasurable. When he found he could not even assume a proper lotus position without his knees feeling as if they were on fire, he had finally swallowed his pride and gone to Dende. The Guardian, after a brief moment of running his hands over Piccolo's body, had ordered him to sit.

_Piccolo complied, not so much to mitigate the shock as because his knees were still killing him. Whatever news Dende was about to give him, he had already been anticipating it for a very long time._

_"It's a disease," Dende said without preamble, "a progressive one. Your ability to regenerate is deteriorating, and has been for the past half-century at least. The pain is due to your body's inability to repair itself from the training you've been doing."_

_Piccolo knew that there was more. "What else?" he asked, crossing his arms._

_Dende sighed. The younger Namekian had more than a few wrinkles himself, now. "I said that it was progressive, and it's only going to keep getting worse. I can keep you comfortable, but Piccolo – there is no cure. You have maybe a few years before it gets to the point where even the most minor injury becomes potentially fatal, and eventually not even I will be able to help you anymore. I – I'm sorry."_

_"I see." That he would die soon didn't bother him. The thought of going out like this, however, in near-constant pain and unable to care for himself, was not something that he had ever considered, or wanted._

From then on, the physical symptoms had only gotten worse. It wasn't long before Piccolo was spending most of his days in a chair in the library, watching the clouds roll by outside of the high window and trying to remember what it felt like to fly. Even though Dende healed him on a regular basis as promised, it was never long before the pain came back – and every time, it had spread a little bit further.

Then, _it_ happened. He was returning to his usual place by the window with a glass of water – he refused on general principle to ask Dende or Popo to go and get it for him. He was also too proud to use the wall for support as he walked, which probably played a fairly large role in what happened next.

He was more than halfway to the library when his hand seized up for no apparent reason. The glass slipped from his fingers to shatter on the floor, and before he could regain his equilibrium one of his rebellious knees decided to give out on him as well.

He fell right on top of the broken glass.

Piccolo tried to push himself back onto his feet, but only succeeded in driving the glass shards deeper into his hands in addition to embedding a few that hadn't been there before. After a few more fruitless efforts to get to his feet he collapsed again, unable to do anything but watch the slow trickle of blood that seeped from the cuts on his hands and forearms.

Suddenly, he couldn't help but remember how he had found Pan, several months before her death: unconscious on the floor of her kitchen, grains of spilled rice scattered all around her body, her grayish-white hair swiftly changing color to red… Dende had barely gotten there in time to heal her. Even a few minutes longer, and she would have been beyond help.

When Pan had come to, she'd said that she had fallen.

Piccolo had thought, then, of the great injustice of it all: how a once-strong warrior, a Super Saiyan on the level of Cell and beyond, had been brought so close to death by an ordinary fall. Now, he was in the exact same position. The only difference was that he was aware of what was happening to him, and that, due to his inability to regenerate on even a human level, he would, over the course of the next several hours, be forced to watch himself slowly bleed out from the relatively minor injuries.

Thankfully, it never came to that. This thought had barely crossed his mind when two sets of running footsteps alerted him to the presence of Dende and Popo – the Guardian must have heard his fall. He found himself turned over and pulled away from the glass, and then the shards were gently removed from his skin as the cuts were healed one by one.

No sooner had the last wound closed than Piccolo was lifted from the floor, his arm draped around the shoulders of someone slightly shorter than himself.

"Mr. Popo, would you mind cleaning up here?" Dende's voice was coming from very close to his head.

"Of course not, Master Dende." The sound of glass shards clinking against each other immediately followed.

Piccolo growled as he found himself slowly moving back down the hallway with Dende's assistance. "I can walk by myself."

"Evidently you can't." Dende made no move to release him, and Piccolo realized with a shock that he no longer had the physical strength to resist: Dende, though not a fighter, was strong in his own right, and Piccolo's health had been in decay for quite some time. He had lost his choice in the matter.

Dende brought him to a bedroom. It was the same one where Pan had stayed during the last few months of her life, until she had fallen asleep in a chair by the window and never woken up.

Piccolo did not miss the irony.

From the second the door closed, he knew that that room was where he was going to spend the remainder of his life.

Weeks passed, and every day he felt worse. Soon, he could tell that he didn't have much longer. The simple act of breathing was getting progressively harder, and he could barely see. His entire body ached; even Dende's healing powers barely had an effect anymore.

The younger Namekian had been sitting with him whenever he was not sleeping or performing his duties, often reading out loud or talking quietly. Whenever Dende wasn't there Popo was, and Piccolo strongly suspected that the genie was hoping to get one last glimpse of Kami before he died.

This time, however, Dende was silent. He knew just as well as Piccolo did that his time was drawing near, and it seemed that he didn't want to upset the solemnity of the moment.

"Dende."

There was a sudden rustle of cloth as the other Namekian started; apparently he had assumed that Piccolo was too far gone to speak. "Yes?" He leaned forward, though all Piccolo could perceive at this point was a shadow over his head. "What can I do for you?" His voice was quiet.

"…leave me."

A few seconds passed in shocked silence: whatever last request Dende had been expecting, it must not have been that. Then, in a voice that was very small and quiet, "…what?"

"I… thank you." His throat had gone so dry and hoarse that he barely recognized his own voice. "But I need to finish this alone." Summoning up the last of his will, he added in the one word that, even after all these years, was still very foreign to him: "…please…"

"…okay." The legs of the chair scraped against the floor as Dende got up. His soft footsteps began their retreat across the room, but at the door they suddenly halted. "If you change your mind, for any reason, just call me telepathically. But if we don't see each other again… goodbye, my friend."

Apparently he wasn't expecting a response, for the door opened and closed again immediately after, and then Dende's footsteps retreated away.

With that, he was alone. Piccolo had been completely alone on the day he came into the world; it seemed only fitting that he should die in equal solitude.

He had never thought, however, that he would die in a bed. No, he had always thought – hoped – that it would be in battle.

A warrior's death…

Snarling, Piccolo threw the blankets from his body with a sudden burst of energy. It ebbed away as quickly as it had come, but he wasn't done yet: exerting all of the strength that he could muster, he rolled out of the bed.

He hit the floor with a sickening crash. It had taken a truly maddening amount of effort even to get that far, and for a few minutes he could only lie there, taking the air in great gasps as he tried to get his breath back. Dende must have heard him hit the floor; he would have to have been deaf not to. Piccolo strained his ears; that was the one part of his body that was still working exactly as it was supposed to. To his great relief, there were no concerned exclamations, no sounds of running footsteps.

It seemed that Dende was keeping his word. He would not return to the room unless called.

Knowing relief that his final wish had been honored further renewed his strength. It wasn't much, but even this slight energy was sufficient for his purposes.

His knees, hips, and back screamed out in protest as he repositioned his body, but Piccolo ignored the pain. Over the course of his life he had been repeatedly beaten to near-death by Nappa, Frieza, Cell, and several different androids, not to mention Goku. He wasn't going to let a few complaints from his joints hold him back now.

Finally, after a long and painful struggle that felt like it had lasted hours, he had managed to get himself where he wanted to be. Just one last thing, and then he could leave this world in peace.

Gritting his teeth in concentration, Piccolo exerted the last of his remaining energy.

* * *

Dende was making his usual evening rounds, circling the perimeter of the Lookout as the sun sank beneath the clouds. The day was a windy one; his robes flapped fiercely about his body, and the treacherous gusts threatened to blow him right off the edge of the Lookout if he wasn't careful.

Thankfully, the Earth was now at a time of peace and balance. At times like this, the Guardian's duties were minimal.

Dende supposed that it was just as well. Today, his mind was very far away from what he was supposed to be doing.

Staff in hand, Dende retreated in out of the wind. He was halfway to the library when his ears picked up a crash.

_Piccolo…_

Compassion compelled him to run to the room and check whether Piccolo was okay – but friendship stayed his hand. The crash was not followed by a call for help, and he had asked to be left alone.

Dende's ears flicked curiously, however, as he continued his walk. There was further movement – far more than anyone in Piccolo's condition should have been capable of achieving – but it told him, at least, that the older Namekian was still conscious, and did not want assistance.

He was getting ready to die…

He had reached the library. Sighing, Dende pulled out a book at random from the nearest shelf, and brought it to his usual windowside table. Pulling out a chair, he set the book down in front of him but did not turn the pages, only stared at the cover and the name that was written within.

This was one of the books that Gohan had left him, so many centuries ago…

His musings were interrupted when a mug of tea was set gently down in front of him. Raising his head, Dende met the eyes of the other permanent resident of the Lookout, who was watching him with an expression of concern.

"Thank you, Mr. Popo," he murmured politely, curling his fingers around the steaming mug as he smiled at his assistant. Tea was one Earthling custom he had rather gotten to like, so much so that it had become something of an evening ritual for him. Popo always remembered to bring him a cup.

Popo did not return the smile. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Master Dende?" He heard the concern in the genie's voice, as well as the unasked question.

Dende shook his head. "I thank you, but no." He knew that Popo's mind, like his, was not on his duties tonight. "Please, get some rest. I'm going to stay up a while longer."

Popo nodded. "As you wish." With that, he was gone, and Dende was alone in the library.

He opened the book, but could not seem to focus on the words. There was a sudden flaring of Piccolo's _ki_ , followed by a rapid drop. Again, Dende resisted the urge to go in and check on him.

It wouldn't be much longer…

Sunset was long since past. Now the sky darkened from deepest blue to velvet black, and stars sparkled like diamonds outside of the window. Dende had always been fascinated by stars; they were never visible from his native planet.

Piccolo's _ki_ guttered and winked out.

Even though he knew it the instant it happened, Dende forced himself to wait a few minutes before he went to look. He told himself that it was a safety margin, just in case, but also knew it was possible that he was just afraid.

After all, he had already witnessed more people die than he ever wanted to see again.

Finally, he decided that he could put it off no longer. He pushed out from the table, his untouched cup of tea long since grown cold, and made his way back down the hallway. Before long he was in front of the door once again.

He hesitated for only a second before pushing it open.

For a moment, Dende could only stare in shock at what he saw. Then, however, he had to press a hand to his mouth to cover a smile.

Piccolo was on the floor beside the bed, his eyes clamped shut, his arms and legs folded tightly in the meditative pose in which he had spent a good portion of his life. Though he was on the floor instead of in the air and he had leaned his back against the wall for support, his position was otherwise perfect, right down to the frown of concentration.

He had even managed to conjure himself a new gi, complete with training weights.

"Oh, Piccolo," Dende said out loud, still smiling even though he was now wiping his eyes. "It seems you managed to die as a warrior after all."


	2. The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At long last, Piccolo has made it to the afterlife... but what judgement awaits him there?

With Nappa, it had been quick, over even as it had started. This time, the transition was longer, but he couldn't say, exactly, what it was like or even when it began. All he knew was that it was a sensation that was not quite falling, not quite flying; up and down lost all meaning, and for a moment he had no idea where he was, who he was, or even _that_ he was.

Then, it was over. He had not changed his position; he had not opened his eyes. Everything was exactly the same as it had been before, with one important difference.

The pain was gone.

Piccolo opened his eyes.

He was in a place he had visited twice before. Yellow clouds floated above and below and an endless road stretched out beneath his crossed legs, occupied by fluffy wisps of ethereal mist that he knew were the souls of other departed Earthlings.

Unfolding his legs, he slowly lowered himself down onto the road. That he had been allowed to keep his body could mean only one of two things. Now, the only question left was where he would be going next.

Piccolo barely had time to finish the thought, however, before someone else crashed into him at supersonic speed, and it was only through the greatest of effort that he managed to keep from falling flat on his back.

He would know that _ki_ anywhere.

"G-Gohan?" Slowly, hardly daring to believe that this moment had come at last, he raised a hand to place it on the shoulder of the man who was now hugging him so hard he could barely breathe.

Gohan nodded against his chest, and to his surprise he heard an actual sniffle. "Piccolo," he sobbed, "I missed you _so_ much…"

"But… how…?"

His question was answered for him, however, as he noticed another familiar _ki_. Looking up and through Gohan's halo, he saw Goku hovering above the clouds with a mischievous smirk on his face, two fingers still held to his forehead.

Oh.

Piccolo raised his lip in a snarl: _Tell anyone about this,_ ever _, and I_ will _find a way to kill you again._ Goku only grinned back at him, completely unperturbed.

Piccolo was going to have to wipe that smile from his face later.

Not now, however. Now, he had more important things to take care of.

"I missed you too, kid."

Gohan stepped back a pace, smiling as he wiped his eyes. "You're still calling me 'kid,' Piccolo?"

"Always will."

Gohan gave a watery chuckle before he floated back into the air, allowing Piccolo his space. He still drifted along by Piccolo's side, however, as the line continued its slow roll toward the Check-In Station. All through the long wait he chattered happily away, along with the more-than-occasional contribution from Goku, and even though Piccolo didn't participate much he was, for once, completely unbothered by their antics. Besides, it seemed like it had been forever since he had last heard that voice.

As the line drew nearer and nearer to the doors, however, another thought began to creep ever more persistently back into his mind. Though he was basking in the joy of simply being in Gohan's presence again (not that he would ever admit that out loud), as he followed the conversation with one ear the thought that he had had upon his arrival kept coming back to haunt him.

He had kept his body.

Which option would it be?

Piccolo had debts to pay, and he knew it. What he didn't know was whether he had succeeded in making up for his villainous past over the course of his life. If he hadn't, and Yemma sentenced him to Hell, then this would be the last time he would see Gohan again – not just over the course of a lifetime, but for the rest of eternity.

Try as he might, he couldn't imagine a sentence worse than that.

"Piccolo? Hey, Piccolo!" Gohan was hovering a foot or so away, waving a hand in front of his face. "You're spacing out. Is something wrong?"

"Ah, he's probably just bored." Goku floated up beside him, one hand behind his head. "Speaking of which, how much longer is this going to take?" He turned his head from side to side, trying to gauge the distance of the line. "I'm hungry!"

"You're always hungry," Piccolo said, crossing his arms.

"Well, I haven't eaten for hours, and it's not like there's anything else to do! Since there's no one here to spar with…" Suddenly, his eyes lit up. "Hey, Piccolo, you wanna sp—"

"At least wait until I get out of this line!" Did he have no shame at all?

"Aw, but Vegeta didn't mind." Goku was hovering in the air with his arms crossed, looking thoroughly put-out.

Gohan laughed. "Come on, Dad," he said, putting a hand on his father's shoulder, and even though he was smiling he seemed to have sensed that Piccolo's brooding was due neither to boredom nor to his usual stoicism. "He just got here, you'll have plenty of time to spar later." He grinned. "Right, Piccolo?"

Piccolo looked away then, fixing his gaze on the clouds beneath the road. "We'll see, kid."

Immediately Gohan's face sobered; he drifted from his father back over to Piccolo. "What do you mean, 'we'll see?'" he demanded.

Piccolo opened his mouth, but before he could think how to answer he found himself in front of a giant set of double doors: they had reached the headquarters of the Check-In Station.

"Next!" Yemma's voice boomed. For a moment, only a moment, Piccolo locked eyes with Gohan. He saw Gohan's eyes widen as comprehension dawned on his face. Then, however, his eyes flashed, and his jaw acquired a determined set. He was just opening his mouth with an expression of protest when Yemma called again.

"You there, hurry up and get over here! I haven't got all day!"

_You've_ got _all of eternity_ , Piccolo thought, annoyed. Nevertheless he kept his mouth shut, turning from Gohan to stride toward the summons with his back straight and his head held high. Whatever his final judgment might be, he was going to face it – as a warrior, not kicking and screaming like the monster his father would have had him become.

If, however, Yemma's sentence was not in his favor, he was going to demand at least the chance to say goodbye. He thought that he had earned that much, at least.

Silently, Gohan came to stand beside him and place a hand on his shoulder. At this point even Goku seemed to have picked up on the gravity of the situation, and he too came forward to stand on Piccolo's other side.

Yemma looked down at the three of them with a touch of surprise, his chin lifting up from its resting place in his massive hand. " _Another_ one, Goku?" he asked. "How many more friends are you expecting?"

"Oh, don't worry, King Yemma. He's the last one." Goku grinned innocently up at the god, and not for the first time Piccolo wondered whether his carefree disregard for authority was the product of genuine cluelessness, or a calculated effort to aggravate others. At the moment, he strongly suspected the latter. "After you're through with Piccolo we won't ever bother you again."

Piccolo snorted. Somehow, he found that unlikely.

"Fine." Yemma waved a hand. "Take him, so I can get back to work. Next!"

Slowly, hardly daring to believe what he had heard, Piccolo turned away from the massive mahogany desk. Gohan, still beside him, was grinning from ear to ear.

"See, Piccolo? What'd I tell you?"

"Yeah, I guess you did." Piccolo allowed himself a smile, but his thoughts quickly turned solemn. "Gohan, I—"

"All right!" Goku interrupted, coming down in between them. Piccolo was rather irked to notice that he had one arm around each of their shoulders. "C'mon, guys, let's go home!" With that, he brought two fingers to his forehead, in the process nearly yanking Piccolo down onto his knees.

That was another one he was going to have to get Goku back for later.

"Best way to travel!" Gohan exclaimed.

Piccolo blinked. He hadn't felt anything, hadn't even been aware of any movement, but they were definitely not at the Check-In Station any longer. For one thing, the sky was blue, and as far as the eye could see stretched a well-kept lawn that looked to be some sort of training ground. The sound of laughter made him look up just in time to see Krillin and Yamcha flash across the sky, exchanging punches almost too fast for the eye to follow. A few seconds later Goten and Trunks flew by in the opposite direction, arms and legs a mere blur.

"Ah, there's no place like home." Finally, Goku removed his arm from around Piccolo's neck. "So, Piccolo," he said, looking none-too-subtly back up at the others, " _now_ do you want to—"

Piccolo gritted his teeth. "Eventually, Goku. But not right now."

"But you said once you were out of the line—"

"Grandpa!" They turned at the voice to see that Pan had just landed a few feet away from them, arms crossed. "You promised you'd spar with _me_ when you got back!"

Goku looked confused. "I did?"

Pan glared, planting her fists on her hips. "Yes!"

"Oh – ah – well, then." Goku turned back to Piccolo, grinning sheepishly. "Another time, then?"

Piccolo folded his arms. "Whenever you want."

"All right!" Goku flashed him the Son grin. "I'm holding you to that, you know!" Before Piccolo could answer he and Pan were in the air, their hair flaring gold.

Right before they started throwing _ki_ blasts, however, Pan turned her head just enough to give Piccolo a very subtle wink.

Suddenly, Piccolo felt a sudden upsurge of affection for Pan.

For a few more minutes he and Gohan merely stood together, watching as the other warriors sparred. A two-handed blow from Trunks sent Goten crashing into the ground, resulting in a minor earthquake. Vegeta was immediately there to take Goten's place, grinning maniacally as he exchanged punches with his son.

Gohan was the first to break the silence. "So," he said, sweeping his arm in a wide circle, "welcome to the warriors' heaven. Would you like me to show you around?"

Piccolo nodded, more for the opportunity to get away from the others than because he actually wanted a tour. "Sure, kid."

Grinning, Gohan lifted into the air. Piccolo followed. Soon, they were well out of visual range of anyone they had known in life.

As expected, Gohan started talking immediately, pointing out this and that as they floated slowly over the grounds. For the moment, Piccolo simply allowed himself to drift along, following Gohan's chatter with one ear. "…and there's the arena," Gohan was saying. "They only use it for the really big tournaments, though, since it's a pain to repair. And over there—" he pointed, "—is the Grand Kai's mansion. We don't see him very often, but legend has it that he'll give a private lesson to anyone who wins a tournament. And hey, there's Pikkon!" Gohan waved at another man, obviously alien, who was practicing katas midair. He returned the greeting with a barely perceptible nod, not breaking his rhythm at all.

"You ought to try training with him sometime, I think you'd like him," Gohan continued as they came to a landing on a grassy spot well away from any of the others. "Anyway… what do you think?"

"Kid," Piccolo said, sinking into a lotus, "this place suits you perfectly."

Gohan grinned. "Yep," he said, imitating Piccolo's position, "I don't think there's anywhere else Dad and the others would rather spend the rest of eternity." For a moment, they were silent, the distant grunts and yells of training or sparring warriors the only sound that reached them.

"You know," said Gohan after a few minutes of uncharacteristic quiet, "I know that we haven't seen each other for hundreds of years and all…"

"Doesn't matter," Piccolo returned, picking up the conversation when Gohan seemed to stumble on his words. "I never forgot you, kid," he said quietly when there was no response. "And you're still the same as ever, to tell you the truth."

Gohan smiled. It was his usual Son grin, that expression of contagious happiness that always seemed to light up the room, but Piccolo, knowing him as he did, thought he could detect a trace of relief in his face as well. "Aw, thanks… I think." Gohan rubbed the back of his head, still grinning, but then his face sobered. "I also wanted to thank you, though. Thank you for looking after my daughter."

"Didn't really do much," Piccolo grunted. "Pan was the one who saved us in the end."

"Don't write off your own role in this." Gohan leaned forward, his face earnest. "I don't think either one of you really understands just how much you've done for each other."

Piccolo started. "You were watching?"

"The whole time." Suddenly, Gohan's eyes were overbright. "I didn't catch everything, though. When you were communicating telepathically… Pan won't tell me, you know. There was something she saw in your head that brought her to tears, but she said that you would want to share it yourself." He continued to look at Piccolo, waiting expectantly.

"Gohan—"

Then, however, he knew that it was time. His silence had already brought enough suffering to them both.

There was a time when Piccolo had thought he would need words for this moment. Pan had taught him otherwise.

Opening his mind to Gohan's, at long last he granted his former student access to all of the thoughts and feelings that he had spent his life hiding. His loneliness, his feelings of being pushed aside even before they had been separated by death. His more-than-occasional envy of Goku. His regret for not having spoken sooner.

Behind all of that, however, was the most important thing: his unwavering love for his student, his best friend…

His son…

Gohan gasped at the force of the emotion that hit him. By the time it was over, he had tears leaking from his eyes.

The connection between their minds had lasted for seconds at most, but minutes passed before either one of them spoke again. Finally, Gohan looked up, his eyes still shining with tears that threatened to fall.

"The whole time?"

Piccolo nodded. "Always."

"Piccolo, I—" Evidently, however, words had failed him, for at that moment he lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Piccolo's waist and burying his head in his shoulder.

"Easy, kid." Awkwardly, he laid a hand on Gohan's back. There was a time, perhaps, to save his dignity – but this was not it. Now, he had something more important to salvage.

"I'm—"

"Don't you dare say it," Piccolo snarled. "I'm not about to waste the rest of my afterlife on apologies, and neither should you."

Gohan's shoulders shook. There was a quick intake of breath, a sob that quickly turned into a chuckle. He sat back on the grass then, still grinning as he wiped his eyes. Piccolo, rarity though it was, smiled back in turn.

Finally, at long last, he was home.


End file.
